Minus only a couple bad days with food over the last year, I’ve been about as recovered as any anorexic could ever hope to be. When we hear someone say “recovered” we tend to think that they’re are back to normal with their illness far behind them. I wish that’s what I meant, but sadly it’s not. No, recovered means that it’s still with me constantly in the way I must monitor my environment every day, in how I must check in with those close to me who monitor me to let them know exactly what’s going through my mind (and that I’m still eating), etc. What it means to be recovered is that through all these tools I’m no longer starving myself, but that’s as close to normalcy as I can get so I’m just tickled pink with it.
Being recovered also means weight gain. That’s like getting a shot as a kid: it sucks to deal with, but you know it produces better health so you roll with it. But lately I’ve gotten a little heavier than I care for and wanted to lose weight. The very first day I began monitoring my caloric intake I could immediately feel the all-too-familiar wave of resentment toward food wash over me. Sure, my mind said, if you ate the way you planned you could lose one pound per week, but you can trim back more and lose even more weight! Food quickly began to feel like the enemy again, and this was no more pronounced than when I stepped on the scale.
Boy, did that ever produce the kind of nostalgia one generally tries to avoid. I recall my obsession with the scale, of being owned by it. I treated the scale like smokers treat their habit, by taking breaks from my work ten or more times a day to go get my fix on the scale.
Today I stepped back on the scale for the first time in two weeks. I lost three pounds, which is a healthy rate of weight loss (if you’re losing more than two pounds per week, that’s bad). Rock on! See you in another two weeks, scale.